Maybe
by Sparkiebunny
Summary: All Dean needs is for Sam to listen to him. To look up at him with those mossy hazel eyes, all dewy and vulnerable, full of love, full of trust…he just needs Sam to look at him like that and trust him to make it all better, even when he can't.


**AN: Another tag to "Slash Fiction", a companion of sorts to **_**Do You Ever Get Tired?**_

**Dedicated to the awesome **_**WinglessBird**_**, one of the most supportive reviewers a girl could ask for, someone I'm so blessed to get to know! A through-and-through Deangirl, too, so this is for her!**

* * *

><p>It's dark when Dean opens the door. His hand nearly slips from the handle because of the rain outside, pouring in heavy drops, soaking him in the small walk from the car to the motel room door. Less of a walk, more of a controlled run because Sammy is inside and he has to see him, hear him, apologize, <em>something<em>.

The kid wasn't hard to track down, and part of Dean wonders if that'd been on purpose. Regardless, Dean is here, finally here in front of Sam's room and pushing open the door (and he's holding his breath but isn't sure why).

"Sammy," he breathes, eyes falling on his brother. Water drips down his forehead and he shoves a hand across his face to keep it from falling in his eyes.

Sam's knees are pulled up to his chest, his body almost completely still but for the fine tremors only a big brother's keen eye could notice.

Dean tries to speak (tries so hard because he wants to, because he should), but the words can't claw their way out, so instead he walks over and stands near his brother, his Sammy. There's a half-empty liquor bottle at Sam's side, and with a stab of guilt, Dean moves it aside.

"Go away."

Sam's voice is scratchy, and for a moment, all Dean can hear is Dad's voice. He'd never noticed how alike they sound until right now; how did he miss it? But somewhere between the disappointment and darkness, there is something so uniquely _Sam_ that the distinction is clearer than the likeness (even though he still sees Dad and darkened eyes and brokenness, and it all hurts to think about).

"How m'ny times do I hafta tell you, I _know_ who you are. Go 'way."

It only takes Dean a second to realize that Sam doesn't recognize him, and a glimpse of the fingers digging into the scarred palm for Dean to realize who Sam _thinks_ he's talking to.

"Sam-"

"NO."

Sam's voice is strong, sober even. His eyes burn with defiance and anger, and it hurts like fire and failure. Dean just needs to talk to Sam, and for Sam to listen, but now that plan's ruined. Everything's ruined. (Dean knows he ruined everything, somehow he did and he can't take it back).

"Listen to me, Sammy, please."

All Dean needs is for Sam to listen to him. For his gargantuan little brother to look up at him with those mossy hazel eyes, all dewy and vulnerable, full of love, full of _trust_…he just needs Sam to look at him like that and trust him to make it all better, even when he can't. (He needs Sam to be twelve again, to look up to him, to smile and be ok.)

Dean doesn't get what he needs. He gets disappointed. Every. Damn. Time. And now he's looking at those mossy hazel eyes, all dewy and vulnerable, but they're full of anger and distrust and it's tearing him apart.

Sam's voice is seeping with so much resentment that Dean almost misses the slight quiver. But he's Sam's big brother and he can't miss it (can't miss anything), so the quiver shakes him to the core.

"You're not Dean."

And oh how in that moment, he wants it to be true. He doesn't want to be Dean. He doesn't want to be strong all the time, cracking the jokes, smirking and laughing and mouthing off. He doesn't want to be flirty or sarcastic or anything but broken (because he wants his outside to match his inside, and that's really the only way.)

He doesn't want to be Dean. He doesn't want to carry the weight and pretend it isn't there. He doesn't want to say it's ok when everything is falling apart, and then be the one to glue the pieces back together.

He wants to be someone else, someone who can have a beer just because he wants to and it tasted good, not to drown the nasty things he keeps inside. Someone who drives places just to drive there, not to track down a town of dead bodies and broken revelations. He wants to be someone else, someone not-him. He doesn't feel like that often (and never says anything when he does), but sometimes it's all too overwhelming for him to take.

Sometimes, he doesn't want to be Dean. He wants to be someone else. But he figures that maybe that's ok, because Sam used to want to be a college-bound lawyer boy, and Cas used to want to be some sort of savior, and Dad used to want to be a dad. None of those things were meant to be for any of them, so maybe it was ok if he wanted to be someone else on occasion. Because in the end, Sam would never be a lawyer; he'd be a hero, a brother. Cas was never the world's savior; he'd always just be Dean's. And Dad was never a real dad; he was a hunter. He tried to be more and a few times, Dean thought he could be. But in the end, he was a hunter.

And Dean…Dean is Dean. A brother. A broken big-brother trying to do right by his Sammy, his world, and himself, never quite sure if he is succeeding.

Dean doesn't argue with Sam. He doesn't grab his hand and dig his fingers in, he doesn't even speak, hardly breathes. He just looks at Sam (and wants to fix him so bad, but can't) long enough for his eyes to fill. Then, he lets his legs buckle and he sits on the bed.

His face is buried in his hands now, so he doesn't have to see or hear (but it feels like he's turning away from Sam and that feels so wrong), and he thinks some moisture escapes from his eyes. But he's still wet from the rain, so he's not sure.

He feels sick, sick about all of it. Sam leaving (again, and he wants Sam to stop because every time he does it, he's running away with a piece of Dean's soul, the piece that he _needs_ and always will), the sky raining, Amy dying (her son having no mom, growing up with no one, no brother to live for)…The acidic _All right. Sorry, Sam_ burns on his tongue and he wants to run out into the rain and rinse it off because God, it hurts almost as much as the tearing sensation in his chest, in his heart.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice is soft, soft like it hasn't been in so long, too long. Dean looks up cautiously (because he's afraid of what he'll see).

"Always," Dean responds. He tries not to sound bitter because he's not mad at Sam, and he knows Sam would take it that way.

The mossy hazel is starting to clear, confusion giving way to fear and something else (relief? Dean is afraid to hope). "I-I thought…Y'know."

Dean nods, still not rising from the bed to approach his brother. "I know."

Sam is still trembling, a little worse than before, and he's clearly shaken by not knowing his own brother from an imaginary figment in his mind. His eyes are flicking nervously, as if he's afraid of how Dean will react. His fingers are digging into his hand, and Dean is pretty sure Sam doesn't even realize.

Dean decides it's now or never, so he might as well make his move.

"Sam, I'm-"

Sam stops shaking and looks at Dean, looks right into his eyes. Dean holds the gaze, and sees the loyalty, the love (the _I forgive you, big brother_) in the mossy depths.

"I know." He's still looking at Dean. "Jerk."

Dean is Dean. A brother. A broken big-brother trying to do right by his Sammy, his world, and himself, never quite sure if he is succeeding.

But it's enough for Sammy and it's enough for him, so maybe (just maybe), that's ok.

Dean watches the corner of Sam's mouth quirk into a tiny smile (and Dean feels his lips do the same).

And maybe (just maybe), that's enough.


End file.
